The Locksmith's Daughter

by Karen Brooks

  I recoiled at his tone.

  ‘Give them compassion when they wouldn’t think twice about burning the likes of you and me if it meant their faith was restored? Bah. Our blood is cheap in their eyes. It’s for spilling. Don’t be gulled, Mallory. What you saw were Catholics who’d been caught, who were afeared for their lives. They deserve nothing but punishment for their stubborn ways, their dangerous and misguided loyalty to a Bishop of Rome.’ His voice softened. ‘You’re but a woman being asked to think and act like a man. I understand this is a struggle for you. Being feeble-minded, you cannot harden yourself; you seek a truce where there can only be war. Do not chide yourself. Your weakness is beyond your ability to control.’

  Though I bristled at his criticism, Thomas was right. I was a woman. But was I not also a courtier seeking perfection? A watcher? Was that not achieved by nonchalance? I was not a fool for feeling as I did, but for allowing my feelings to be seen. I glanced at the letter. Perchance what I’d written was also a mistake. I placed a hand on the report and pulled it towards me. I could rewrite it; remove my opinion.

  Yet Sir Francis believed I brought a uniqueness to this work and could offer insights men could not. Lifting the report off the table, I hoped he still felt that way when he read it.

  ‘Is that for Mister Secretary?’ asked Thomas.

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘Here, I will take it.’

  ‘I thought I might,’ I said, bringing it to my breast.

  Thomas shook his head. ‘You are to go home. Your work for now is done.’

  With a sinking heart, I handed my report over.

  I stayed seated even after Thomas left, staring into space, wondering what would become of the people who had gathered in the vicarage kitchen, the people I’d so painstakingly described. Their fates would now be decided by Sir Francis and his men.

  I didn’t join Papa in the workshop that night, or Caleb, though I could hear him reciting lines in the parlour and Angela laughing and clapping. I wanted no part of anything this evening, only my own misery.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  HARP LANE, LONDON

  Late June, Anno Domini 1581

  In the 23rd year of the reign of Elizabeth I

  It was some time before I rose from my bed and pushed the shutters wide to gaze upon the yard. Night had not quite fallen and the sound of revelry on the streets carried. The evening air was oppressive, thick. Heavy clouds slumped above, blotting out the stars. Water dripped from the trees. The sparks from a fire spiralled skywards. Below, Papa still laboured in the workshop, taking advantage of the longer daylight hours, Matt by his side. Laughter carried from the kitchen, the door open to admit the warm breeze. The dogs scampered around the yard, chasing Latch onto a hay bale. From her vantage point, she turned and threw punches with her paws, her tail and coat twice its usual size. Her kittens, born only a few weeks earlier, were safe with Master Gib inside.

  I watched the animals play out the eternal war between their species and thought how like Catholics and Protestants they were — fighting as if they were born to it, not understanding how much they shared. They both had four legs, tails, fur, dependency on humankind. If only they co-operated, how much easier their lives would be. Even language need not be a barrier. Playful scraps aside, did they not share our house? Our attentions? The food from our table? Alas, the battles between Catholics and Protestants were never playful but deadly serious.

  With a head bursting with contrary thoughts, and knowing sleep would not claim me for a long time, I decided to concede to my mood and give my misery company after all. I thought to seek out Caleb.

  Taking a candle, I went down the attic stairs and past the apprentices’ room, then descended the staircase towards Caleb’s. I knocked gently on the door. When there was no answer, I opened it an inch.

  ‘Caleb?’ He oft became so lost in what he was doing that he failed to hear a summons. The same thing would happen to me when I worked with locks.

  Still there was no answer. I opened the door further and peered inside. There was no-one there. Caleb’s bedroom was about the size of my old one, generously proportioned, but with a sloping ceiling that meant you had to watch your head at all times. At least, someone of my height did. An image of Lord Nathaniel in this space made my lips twitch. The man would lose his head ere he turned. The room contained a bed, a desk tucked against the window and a hearth with a thick mantle upon which sat Caleb’s sword and sheath. The shelves Caleb had built were stacked with manuscripts, scrolls and books that threatened to spill onto the floor. There was also an unfamiliar trunk with a great padlock on it. Perchance Caleb had purchased it for when the troupe travelled. I entered the room and crossed straight to it, lifting the lock into my palm. Heavy, with an intricate shank and two keyholes, it could have been Papa’s work. Putting it gently back into place, I looked around. Candles burned on the desk, illuminating the paper sitting there. A quill was upright in its holder, the ink on the page freshly dried. Caleb cannot have gone far if he left candles alight. Perchance he’d gone to the jakes, or to fetch another drink. A tankard sat on the desk, as did a greasy, empty plate.

  Unable to resist, I studied the lock again. For certes, it was an unusual design.

  ‘So, does it meet your exacting standards?’ drawled a voice.

  ‘Caleb,’ I exclaimed, dropping the lock. It clattered against the wood. ‘You scared me out of my wits.’

  Closing the door, Caleb laughed. ‘I doubt anyone could do such a thing. You’re possessed of the soundest wit I know.’ Raising the ewer he carried in my direction, he picked the tankard off the desk, examined the insides, and began to pour. ‘I’m afraid I wasn’t expecting company. I’ve only the one vessel, so we’ll have to share.’ Ale splashed. ‘Here. Have some. It’s a hot night.’

  I refused a drink and instead went to his desk.

  ‘Is this Dido’s Lament?’ I asked.

  He made an affirmative sound, his mouth full of ale. From the look of the notes in the margins and the extensive crossings out, Caleb was struggling to find inspiration.

  I began to leaf through it. ‘How goes it?’

  ‘I can scarce bear to read it, let alone share it with you.’

  ‘You may when you’re ready,’ I said softly.

  Caleb smiled. ‘I will … when it’s ready.’

  ‘Where on God’s good earth did you get that monstrosity?’ I asked, indicating the chest.

  ‘It takes up a fair bit of space doesn’t it?’ Caleb threw himself in his chair and waved his arm towards it. ‘Arrived today. A friend of mine asked if I could take care of it for him.’

  ‘Friend?’

  Caleb lowered the tankard. ‘I do have some apart from you, you know!’ He grinned. ‘’Tis a nuisance.’

  Kneeling beside it, I ran my hand lightly over the surface. The wood was old and battered and badly pitted, and the iron bands girding it had lifted in parts. I nestled the padlock in my palm. It was weighty. The plate was described with tracery and the figure of a monk in long robes was prominent. The lock required two keys and, as I examined it, I began to suspect it may have been fitted with an alarum — possibly ink or even pepper which would spray in the face of a potential lock-pick. Replacing it carefully, I rose and sat on the end of the bed. Caleb hadn’t taken his eyes off me.

  ‘That lock is not for the faint of heart.’

  ‘It looks serious,’ said Caleb, half-turning back to his desk. ‘Apparently, it contains many worldly things and then some.’

  ‘Did Papa make the lock?’ I took the proffered tankard from him and swallowed.

  Caleb glanced over and shrugged. He was sweating heavily; the heat did not sit well with him. I passed his drink back to him.

  ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘It’s possible.’

  Losing interest, he shoved aside the pages on the desk and set the tankard down. Turning, he took my hands in his and drew me closer. Apart from the ink stains, Caleb had such nice hands. Long, elegant fingers with pin
k nails.

  ‘Now, enough about locks and such. Tell me what you’ve been up to. I’ve not had the pleasure of your company for — what is it? Over two weeks. Not properly. You’re like an exotic bird. There are rare sightings, but no real proof of your existence. I wondered if perhaps you’d thought to run away again.’ He winked. ‘No. That was unkind.’ He drew his thumb along the back of my hand. ‘You’ve been very busy, it seems. Too busy for an old friend. Look at the state of your hands.’

  I snatched them away. Being immersed in lye some days had made my hands red and sore.

  ‘Never too busy for you. It’s just —’ I began, wondering where this was leading. I didn’t know what to say. I had neglected him; neglected everyone. I reached for the drink again. I needed to wet my throat as my mind worked to answer his complaint.

  ‘I oft wonder what it is you do, Mallory,’ he said quietly. ‘Ah ah. Don’t. Don’t silence me with that pat response. You work for the Walsinghams? Bah! We both know that’s not true.’

  ‘What do you mean? I do.’

  ‘I think you mean to use the singular but adopt the plural. What you should say is you work for Walsingham. Sir Francis. Only you cannot, can you? Like all who work for him, they’re sworn to secrecy. What I want to know is, what is it you do exactly, Mallory? What possible use could Sir Francis have for a woman apart from the obvious?’

  ‘Caleb!’

  Caleb laughed. ‘I know you too well to think that, and Sir Francis is far too … let us say pure in his tastes to take a mistress. So, pray, my friend, what is the nature of your work? I’ve seen you about London, a boy by your side or the man with the yellow hair — Thomas Phelippes, is it not? Why would you be gadding about with Sir Francis’s trusted secretary if not for some nefarious purpose? Have you become a hunter of Catholics too? Is that why you are so concerned about the content of my plays?’

  I regarded Caleb with consternation. Not only was Lord Nathaniel suspicious, but now Caleb as well.

  ‘You would turn my reality into a great fiction.’ I swept my arm towards the unfinished play.

  ‘You have to admit, your story would make a fine play.’

  I glared at him. ‘My tale is not for entertainment!’ Caleb held up his hands in surrender. I let out a sigh. ‘Master Thomas and the boy of whom you speak, who is no boy but a man, are merely my escorts whilst I attend to my tasks.’

  Caleb held my eyes then turned away with a sigh. ‘Tasks? Such a simple word for complex duties. Seems I’m not the only one to compose fancy. If you cannot share the truth with me, your dearest friend, then I’d best get back to my task.’ Hurt, he began shuffling paper, shoving it between two pieces of bound card.

  ‘Caleb.’ I placed a hand on his shoulder. He stilled.

  ‘What?’ He made an attempt to sound light-hearted, but I could hear the heaviness.

  ‘Don’t. Don’t turn away from me. Not you. My only friend. Even when my family barely acknowledged me, you made me welcome. I trusted you with my darkest secret, burdened you in a manner no friend should. You still loved me. More, you did all in your power to build a bridge between before and after and help me cross. Please don’t abandon me — not now.’ I took a deep breath. If I wanted to preserve what remained of our fond relations, of my dearest and only friendship, I had to tell the truth … Only, I could not, must not, reveal all.

  ‘You’re right,’ I said slowly. ‘I’m certainly not his mistress. But Sir Francis is my master.’ Caleb stiffened. ‘As much as I might wish, I may not tell you what it is I do for him.’

  Caleb relaxed under my fingers. He reached up and covered my hand with his own.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said and twisting his head, he kissed the back of my hand softly. ‘Your secret is safe. Always.’

  ‘And yours? You would trust me with any you might keep?’ I leaned over to touch the pages in front of him.

  Holding his drink steady, Caleb hesitated. ‘I’ve always trusted you with mine, Mallory. You know that. When others would turn away, you embraced me. There’s no-one else with whom I would share the secrets of my heart. No-one.’

  I wanted to say more, but chose not to. I kissed the top of his head and with one last look at the play over which he laboured, went to the door. As I opened it, he spoke again. ‘Be careful, Mallory, won’t you. Don’t do anything that leads you into danger. Sir Francis is known to be ruthless — not only in pursuit of traitors, but with those he uses to uncover them. I could not bear it if you were treated poorly again.’

  He spun around, his blue eyes serious.

  ‘I am safe, Caleb. Sir Francis would not risk me so. But I would say the same to you — choose your words with caution. Above all, stay safe.’ I nodded towards the play. I thought of Campion and his tracts — the damage they’d caused, the trouble yet to come. ‘Words are dangerous weapons in these times. If anything were to happen to you, it would break what remains of my heart.’

  We held our gaze a moment longer before Caleb turned back to his writing and I left with one last look at the chest and the big lock securing it.

  As I returned to my room, I thought about this unnamed friend. Whatever was in that chest was of great import. Locks were bought for one reason and one reason alone — to keep valuables safe, and what could be more valuable in these times than secrets? Caleb might believe the chest contained his friend’s possessions, but — a plague upon my newly suspicious mind — I wondered what this so-called friend was really hiding, and if Caleb knew what it was.

  TWENTY-NINE

  GROUSE LANE, FENCHURCH STREET, AND SEETHING LANE, LONDON

  The 17th to the 22nd of July, Anno Domini 1581

  In the 23rd year of the reign of Elizabeth I

  On the 17th of July, the Jesuit priest, author of seditious pamphlets and traitor to the Crown, Father Edmund Campion, was found hiding in a house at Lyford Grange. There, Master George Eliot and Master David Jenkins, hired by Sir Francis to track the priest, found a veritable nest of heretics protected by a well-known Catholic family, the Yates. After the men first witnessed a mass, they also uncovered secret rooms and priest-holes, along with all the accoutrements of popery — altars, beads, crucifixes, books, pamphlets, Agnus Dei medallions — and some nuns disguised as household staff.

  Along with Thomas, Casey and crowds of Londoners, on the 22nd of July I bore witness as the traitors — Campion and three other priests: Thomas Ford, John Collerton and William Filby — were brought into the city. Campion was mounted on a huge horse, his hands bound behind his back, his feet tied beneath the horse’s belly, as he was taken to the Tower. Around his neck was a sign bearing the words, ‘Edmund Campion, the seditious Jesuit’.

  The streets were lined with people, some cheering, others jeering and throwing missiles of rotten fruit and vegetables as well as ordure. Scattered among us were those who remained silent, shedding tears, muttering beneath their breath, raising their eyes to the overcast skies. I recognised some of the women who had huddled in the vicarage kitchen that day after Father Forwood was arrested, and I nudged Thomas and nodded in their direction.

  Once Campion’s escort passed, the crowd began to disperse. Some would celebrate the arrests, others no doubt would mourn what it signified; most just got on with their lives. We were among the last.

  Thomas almost danced as we wended our way back towards Seething Lane. There was certainly a spring in his step. ‘Sir Francis will be eager to have our reports. I’ll have them sent to Whitehall as soon as they’re written.’

  ‘He is with the Queen today?’

  ‘As his office decrees. Today and every other day,’ answered Thomas. ‘Her Majesty is more demanding than a wife.’

  I glanced at Thomas in astonishment. It wasn’t like him to offer criticism of the Queen. He was accurate in what he said. It oft occurred to me that even I saw more of Sir Francis than did his wife or daughter, who were mostly ensconced at Barn Elms. I hadn’t seen them again since we had gone to Deptford and, I confess, I wasn’t sorry.


  As we crossed the road, narrowly avoiding a courier cantering down the middle of it, the horse’s hooves kicking up mud and spraying a poor carter unable to move away quickly enough, I wondered about marriage. According to what I’d been told, Mamma and Papa had married for love. It was hard to imagine of late, as Mamma kept to her rooms and I barely saw the two of them together, but I remembered scenes from my childhood where, when neither was aware I was looking, a warm embrace or kiss was shared. One of my earliest memories was when Papa received his first royal commission. Capturing Mamma in his arms, he danced her about the parlour as she squealed in protest, flinging back her head and laughing. From the gap in the door, I’d watched and smiled, longing to join in, but knowing instinctively, even back then, that if I had made my presence known, the moment would end. Though distance had grown between them, it wasn’t only duty that propelled Papa to Mamma’s rooms almost every night, had him protecting her from information that might disturb her, had him tolerating her recusancy. I’d never really thought about whether or not Mamma and Papa loved each other, despite the alteration in their relations. I’d taken it for granted that they did.

  What about Sir Francis and Lady Ursula? I couldn’t imagine them stealing a kiss, or dancing, or indulging in romance of any kind. Was theirs simply a marriage of convenience? Sir Francis had been wed before and his wife had died. Had she been his true love? Was Lady Ursula but a pale imitation of what he had once enjoyed?

  And what of my experiences? Promised marriage, promised love and adventure, I’d been delivered of nothing but deceit and pain. The man for whom I’d forsworn my life and my virtue had betrayed me in every way. I knew that not all men were like Raffe; if anything was to blame, it was my judgement that was lacking. Around me was evidence of good men, of good marriages. Why, walking just ahead of us was a man escorting his lady wife. She was swollen with child, and his solicitous attention was heartening to witness as he helped her over a puddle, led her around a clutch of snuffling pigs and lifted the train of her dress when she ascended the steps to a house.